


No Greater Saint

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anti-Mary Sentiment, Blow Jobs, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a *very late* Valentine's Day present for AxeMeAboutAxinomancy for the Johnlock Valentine's Day Gift Exchange, based on the prompt: “Heated argument turns hot!” Not sure how heated the argument was, but this is how it played out in my head.</p><p>It's also based a bit on this quote:</p><p>"I claim there ain't Another Saint As great as Valentine."</p><p>~Ogden Nash</p><p>Synopsis: John shows up unexpectedly on Valentine’s Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Greater Saint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/gifts).



> Again, I'm so sorry this was so very late. I got deathly ill and was then out of town without much of any internet. I hope it was worth the wait. I rather worry it wasn't. <3

Sherlock sat cross-legged in his Grand Comfort, aggressively plucking a violin string and sneering at the sunlight that slanted in through the parlour windows. Work was slow; John was absent; and every single thing about 14 February was vile beyond all belief. Though he’d never been one to care about the socially constructed mechanisms surrounding companionship or interpersonal relations, Valentine’s Day seemed to have rather lodged itself squarely in his chest this year.

John had Mary. Mrs. Hudson had taken up with Angelo—she always did like the slightly dangerous ones. Even Mycroft had found a ‘goldfish’—who would likely be upset at being referred to as such—with whom to distract himself. Perhaps Sherlock should have kept Janine around a little longer. May have even avoided the nasty business of being shot while he was at it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock’s head snapped toward the sound. Undoubtedly his brother, coming to gloat. A polite double-knock seemed to confirm.

“No one’s home!” Sherlock shouted at door.

The doorknob turned, and in stepped John. “Not very convincing. The whole block must have heard that.”

“Ah, John.” Sherlock stood, plopped the violin into his now-empty seat, and wandered aimlessly toward the kitchen. “How kind of you to stop by on such a hideous day.”

“Hideous? It’s lovel—”

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten the way.”

“I get it. I’ve been gone.”

“Have you? I hadn’t noticed.” Sherlock dug around in a cabinet, clanking mugs to avoid looking in John’s direction.

“Would you stop that?”

“Why should I? I want a cup of tea.”

“Mm. Yes, I can see that. Perhaps we could talk first.”

“Perhaps that’ll be your decision when I barge in on you, interrupting your otherwise busy afternoon.”

“Right. You’re angry with me.”

“Why on earth would I be angry with you?”

“I don’t know. How about _you_ tell _me_.”

“Nothing to tell. Your delusions, your deluded reasoning. I’m sure you don’t need my help.”

"Surely you didn’t think—”

“You’d be spending today with me? No. Of course not. You’ve got a wife now, and it’s my understanding that days like today should be spent with her. Which brings up a rather interesting question: Why are you here, John?”

“I know I’ve been gone a lot, but I have to—”

“Here. Why?” Sherlock growled.

“If you’d let me finish, you might know.” John stepped into the doorway of the kitchen. “I’m here because I missed… this.” He cleared his throat. “Us.”

“Well, there are no cases at the moment, so if you’re looking for me to ‘run you,’ you’re out of luck.”

“That’s…” John pursed his lips, squinting his eyes so that the corners crinkled in a way Sherlock would have come to find endearing—if he found things endearing. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Oh?” Sherlock spun to find John much closer than only a few moments earlier, the oven door handle jutting into the small of his back. “Oh. Won’t Mary be looking for you.”

“Sent her for a spa day. Happy Valentine’s Day to us.”

“But you’ve been—”

“Keeping up appearances at best. Struggling most days.”

“Still, you’ve got a pregnant wife at home. You’re far too loyal.”

“My pregnant wife is a liar, whom I only stay with so I might keep an eye on her. And she’s not at home. She’s at the spa.”

“You said you’d forgiven her.”

“She’s not the only one who knows how to lie.”

“But she—” 

“Shot my best friend. Murdered the only person I’ve ever loved as much as I wanted to love her. There’s no forgiveness for that.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“While I do like to keep my friends close and my enemies closer, I think I’d rather focus on the proximity of a friend rather than that of an enemy at the moment.”

“Right. What?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You always were a bit slow with matters of the heart, weren’t you? I forget that sometimes. Perhaps actions will speak louder.”

Sherlock flinched as John’s hand came to rest on his cheek before relaxing into the contact. A slightly calloused thumb stroked his cheekbone and he could feel his lips parting of their own accord. “Wha—what are you doing?”

“Have you already lost the ability to recognise when I’m trying to get off with you? Did Janine go about it so differently that—”

“Janine and I didn’t… I mean, there was no…” Sherlock struggled to find the right words when the heat was pouring off of John’s body in waves. His thigh, nestled snuggly between John’s, felt like it could catch fire at any given moment. He’d forgotten how much he liked this. Repressed it possibly.

“You mean to tell me you never—”

“No. I mean, yes.”

“Well, which is it?” John’s fingers skated along the fabric stretched across Sherlock’s chest.

“Yes. I mean to tell you that we never…”

“Not even once?”

“I told her I wanted to wait until we were married.”

“You never intended to marry her.”

“Yes, precisely. Luckily for me, she hadn’t yet worked that out.”

“Do you still want that?”

“Want what?”  Sherlock’s voice trembled more than he considered strictly comfortable.

“To wait until you’re married. Have you turned traditional on me?”

“I never did. I just told her that so we wouldn’t have to…”

“Have sex?”

“Yes. Have sex.”

“Because you don’t enjoy sex anymore?”

“You’re drawing assumptions.”

“Are they correct?” John’s hand drifted from Sherlock’s knee up to his inner-thigh before coming to a rest.

“It’s quite likely that I do. I just didn’t feel like investigating the matter further.”

“Ever? Or with her?”

“Certainly not with her. She didn’t make the subject very interesting.”

“And now?”

“Now…” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, his growing erection now straining against his zip. “I can see how further investigation might be scientifically relevant.”

“With her?”

“God, no.” Fingers snaked up and pressed tightly between Sherlock’s legs, a warm palm massaging his less-pliable-than-ever cock through the fabric of his trousers.

“Then who?”

A strangled noise erupted from Sherlock’s throat, and the air in his lungs felt incomprehensibly heavier.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“You. It’s always you,” Sherlock panted into John’s hair, his lids already drooping with incessant need. “I missed this. You.”

“Good.” John dropped to his knees and slowly worked open the front of Sherlock’s trousers. “That’s very good indeed.”

John tugged down the snug cotton of Sherlock’s pants, tucking it neatly between arse and bollocks. His breath blanketed already overheated skin, and Sherlock had to grab the oven handle to steady himself when John licked the first wide stripe up his cock, base to tip.

The heat of John’s mouth, the swirl of his tongue, the firm but gentle suction of a talented man—those were the bits that Sherlock remembered missing. That’s what he thought of in the dark of night while he was away, at least on the few occasions that he felt an orgasm would focus his otherwise racing mind. Those were the sensations he imagined replacing his own fist. But, here and now, they were the last thing on his mind.

His fingers weaved in and out of sandy blond locks. He watched the way John’s cheeks hollowed on each and every upstroke. The listened as John hummed over the spit-slicked sounds of flesh against tongue and felt those sound waves reverberate up from his cock and disperse throughout every cell in his body. Those were the details that weakened Sherlock’s knees and had him moaning loud enough for Mrs. Hudson—had she been home—to hear.

If they continued like that for much longer, the whole thing was going to be over before it even really started. “John,” Sherlock eked out through laboured breathing, “p-please?”

He hadn’t the faculties to explain further, but John knew. John always knew, and soon they’d found their way to Sherlock’s bedroom.

With clothes stripped off, Sherlock watched John moving within the space again. Opening the nightstand table with the certainty provided only through muscle memory, swiftly plucking out a condom and bottle of lube and tossing them onto the bed.

“I suppose I’m lucky you even bothered stocking the, uh… supply.” John nodded toward the drawer.

“They mostly kept Janine hopeful, which was often necessary to my cause.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. That’s terrible. You could have at least—”

“Do you wish I had?” 

“God, no.” John exhaled heavily up the length of Sherlock’s spine and placed a kiss to the small of his back.

The faint click of a plastic cap echoed through the otherwise silent room, followed closely by rude sound a bottle makes when squeezed once the contents have fallen dreadfully low. Sherlock’s sophomoric giggle was cut short by the chill and dull pressure of the two fingers circling his now-underutilized entrance.

As they wriggled in, once again settling into their long since abandoned home of yesteryear, John’s other hand snaked between Sherlock’s thighs to palm his only slightly flagging erection. Sherlock pressed the crown of his head into the mattress and forced his eyes open. He always watched wherever possible, and this time would be no exception. And, as per usual, he was immediately rewarded by the visual.

In the foreground, a trained hand moved in measured strokes. Just beyond, the ruddy head of John’s already leaking cock bobbed up and down in the space between Sherlock’s legs. And there was a certain degree of satisfaction that came with the knowledge that—ignored and untouched—it likely ached, but more importantly, it ached for  _him_ . John was putting self-satisfaction aside to cater to Sherlock, despite his own cock begging for attention. Sherlock knew that sounded sadistic, but that wasn’t it at all. In reality, the satisfaction arose from memories of past practice. Because, as a matter of fact, the longer John waited, the more frenzied he would be later. And a frenzied John was a very good John indeed.

By the time John slipped on the condom and slipped into Sherlock, he was already desperate. He huffed and whimpered as he drove his cock into Sherlock time and time again. His fingernails bit angry, red crescents into Sherlock’s hips, as he held them firmly in place. Each thrust was as harsh and methodical as only a mad man’s could be.

Sherlock whined into the sheets, knuckles white where he clung tightly to whatever he could get his fists around. The slap of groin against arse. A slicked up palm wrapped tightly around his cock, and the fury of their hips to set the cadence of the fist. And Sherlock was a slave to the friction, as desperate for the hand at his front as he was for the cock at his back. Were he even of an even slightly sounder mind, he would have chastised himself for how feverishly he fucked himself into and onto John in as many ways as he was capable.

Though he was utterly lost to sensation, Sherlock honed in on John’s breathing and movement. As his motions became more erratic, his breaths grew shorter and were taken in little more than gasps. He was close, which was possibly the most incredibly feeling Sherlock had ever forgotten.

The timing as John pulled him off was starting to slip, and feeling that steady, trained hand begin to tremble was all it took. Sherlock spilled over John’s fist and across expensive linens with reckless abandon and a broken cry before slumping forehead first into a pillow.

John lasted only a few more strokes before finishing with a choked off sob and more than his fair share of panting. He collapsed against Sherlock’s back with a chuckle and placed a row of kisses down the sweat-glossed skin stretched tight over Sherlock’s spine.

They eventually toppled onto their sides—Sherlock being sure to avoid the mess he’d made—and sighed in unison.

“A bit cliché, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked coyly. “Valentine’s Day and all.”

“Shut. Up.” John threatened to tickle him before instead cinching his arms tightly around Sherlock’s chest. “ _You_ are a right cock.”

Sherlock smirked. “You love it.”

“I suppose I do. Insofar as I love you, I suppose.”

“As well you should.”

“What was that?” John snake-bit the tender skin just below Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock sucked a harsh breath through his teeth in response to the pain but laughed. They were always so childish in the afterglow. He’d missed that the most. “I love you, too.”

“You better.”

Sherlock grinned in a way that felt sadder than it should have. He was suddenly even more appreciative that John as behind him. “Do you need to go soon? Won’t Mary be looking for you?”

“Maybe.” John squeezed tighter. “But fuck her.”

Sherlock spun in John’s arms to face him and placed a rather wanton kiss to John’s waiting lips. “No—” He shook his head. “—but, if you give me twenty minutes, I’ll have a similar yet much better idea.”

John smiled the smile Sherlock hoped for and nodded his agreement. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip and carefully considered those words. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, as always, as encouraged. This hasn't been beta'd. Hell, it's barely been read over. I just didn't have the heart to make my Valentine wait any longer. Sorry if there are mistakes.


End file.
